Cemetery Visit

My husband and I spent time in cemeteries this week. Every year, we place Christmas wreaths on the graves of our loved ones, because, well, it’s a tradition learned in childhood and one that brings us a sense of continuity, of keeping family memories alive. We are good stewards, using artificial wreaths that we retrieve after the holiday and store in our basement the rest of the year. Sadly, we added another wreath for an aunt who passed away in October after a rich and full 95 years of life.

Each time we do this, we reminisce about our families or the communities where we grew up. During the 1970’s, my family experienced the death of four close relatives within the space of a few years. I remember my dad in one of his more jaded moments saying, “My God, I feel like I should just be running a tab at Clyde Kraft’s.” (the local funeral director)

The simple act of placing a wreath in front of a grave in 2024, of straightening the bow and making sure it’s securely anchored is almost sacred. It is an outward sign of an immeasurable inward gratitude to those who came before us. The sharing of our stories and memories, whether they be poignant or humorous, is a litany of praise for those family members who loved and shaped us, who took us to school and church and scouts and music lessons, and whose influence we still feel in our lives today.

My paternal grandparents are buried in a cemetery high up on a hill that overlooks the river running through my hometown. I adored them. Their headstone, placed fifty years ago, had been tilting and sinking into the ground to the point that it was soon going to fall over. Last year, we had it repaired and straightened so that it now stands upright. My grandmother, who was rarely seen outside the house without white gloves, would be pleased.

Visiting the cemeteries forces us to stop the frantic here and now of commitments and to-do lists and offers an opportunity to slow down and for just a few moments, glimpse the past.  My husband remembers how his dad insisted that lights be strung in carefully ordered colors. (And after we spent 30 minutes straightening a tree star this week—yeah, I get it.) I can still see my grandmother in one of her bejeweled velvet Christmas dresses suddenly sniffing the air and then jumping up to rescue whatever vegetable was incinerating on the stove because she was too busy talking to pay attention to her cooking.

We miss them all, even these many years later. Stopping by their graves to place a splash of greenery against a granite stone, worn and weathered by time and the elements, says we remember who they were and how they guided us throughout our lives. For both of us, a visit to the cemetery on a dreary winter day is not a depressing chore but a cherished moment of grace and love.